Chapter 5: Ice Cream Torture
The hum of the city was a distant, comfortable thing, filtered through double-paned windows and the haze of a lazy Sunday afternoon. Sunlight cut across Hyukjae’s bedroom floor, catching dust motes in its amber beam. He was propped against the headboard, a script half-forgotten in his lap, wearing nothing but a pair of soft, grey sweats. Donghae had been quiet for a while, which was usually a danger sign.
He returned from the kitchen holding two bowls. The sharp, sweet scent of artificial strawberry hit Hyukjae’s nose before he saw the vivid pink contents.
“Since you’re depriving me of your actual taste for another few hours before dinner,” Donghae announced, climbing onto the bed with a predator’s grace, “I brought a substitute.” He set one bowl on the nightstand. The other, he held onto.
Hyukjae eyed him, the script forgotten. “It’s melting. Eat it or put it in the freezer.”
“I have a better idea.” Donghae’s voice was deceptively light. He dipped two fingers into the soft, cold swirl of ice cream. Without breaking eye contact, he brought them to Hyukjae’s sternum and smoothed the pink cream in a slow, deliberate stripe down his chest.
The cold was a shock. Hyukjae hissed, his back arching off the headboard. “You’re fucking insane. That’s cold!”
“Shh.” Donghae’s eyes were lit with a focused, playful fire. He added another dollop, spreading it over Hyukjae’s abdomen, circling his navel. The chill was biting, a stark contrast to the warm room and Hyukjae’s flushing skin. “You kept me waiting before. Now you wait for me.”
He leaned in, his breath warm against the chilled skin. His tongue followed the trail he’d made, a slow, burning lap from Hyukjae’s sternum down to the waistband of his sweats. The sensation was brutally conflicting: the scrape of his tongue, hot and rough, against skin seared by cold. Hyukjae’s head fell back with a thud against the headboard, a choked moan escaping him.
Donghae took his time. He licked a broad, wet circle around one nipple, then blew on it. The chill made Hyukjae jerk, his nipple pebbling tight. Then Donghae sealed his mouth over it, sucking hard, his tongue flicking the sensitive bud until it was a raw, aching point of heat. He repeated the torture on the other side, biting gently, then soothing the sting with the cool flat of his tongue still flavored with synthetic strawberry.
“Donghae,” Hyukjae gasped, his fingers tangling in Donghae’s hair, not pushing him away, but holding on. “Fuck, just…”
“Just what?” Donghae murmured against his skin, his hand sliding beneath the waistband of Hyukjae’s sweats. He palmed him, finding him fully hard, the fabric damp with pre-come. “You’re dripping, Hyukkie. Just from this. From me licking cheap ice cream off you.” He squeezed, a gentle, possessive pressure. “You’re so easy for me.”
He withdrew his hand, ignoring Hyukjae’s frustrated whine. He dipped his fingers back into the bowl, gathering a larger, melting scoop. This time, he painted Hyukjae’s cock with it, the cold making Hyukjae cry out, his hips bucking off the mattress. The pink cream dripped down his length, onto his balls, a lurid, sticky mess.
Donghae knelt between Hyukjae’s spread legs, his gaze hungry. “Look at you. All pretty and pink for me.” He leaned down, his mouth hovering just above the glistening head. Instead of taking him in, he licked a long, slow stripe from root to tip, cleaning the sweet chill away with searing heat. Hyukjae shuddered violently, his thighs trembling.
“Please,” he begged, the word ripped from him. “Please, Hae. Suck me.”
Donghae smiled, a wicked curve of his lips. He took him into his mouth, swallowing him down to the root in one smooth, devastating motion. The heat was absolute, a velvet vise. He set a ruthless, deep rhythm, his head bobbing, his cheeks hollowing. One hand cupped and rolled Hyukjae’s balls, smearing the remnants of the sticky ice cream. The other hand slid back up Hyukjae’s torso, thumb rubbing rough circles over his abused nipple.
Hyukjae was unspooling, the dual sensations of Donghae’s hot, talented mouth and his cold-slicked hands pushing him to a dizzying edge. The room dissolved into sensation: the wet suction, the scent of strawberries and sex, the ragged sound of his own breathing.
Just as the coil in his gut tightened to breaking, Donghae pulled off with a wet pop. He surged up the bed, kissing Hyukjae deeply, letting him taste the mingled flavors of himself and the ice cream. Hyukjae could feel Donghae’s own hardness through his thin sleep pants, grinding against his hip.
“Turn over,” Donghae panted against his lips, his voice dark with need. “On your knees. Now.”
Hyukjae moved without thought, his body obeying the command before his mind could process it. He got onto his hands and knees, the worn sheets soft beneath his palms. He heard the rip of a lube cap, the slick, squelching sound of Donghae coating himself.
There was no gentle prep this time. Donghae’s fingers were a brief, burning stretch before he replaced them with the blunt, insistent head of his cock. He pushed in, not with a slam, but with a steady, relentless pressure that forced Hyukjae’s body to yield, inch by searing inch. The stretch was magnificent, a deep, claiming burn that made Hyukjae see white behind his eyelids.
Donghae seated himself fully, his hips flush against Hyukjae’s ass. He leaned over, his chest plastered to Hyukjae’s back, his mouth at his ear. “You’re so fucking tight,” he groaned. “Still so fucking open from last night, and you’re clenching around me like a virgin.” He pulled out almost completely, then drove back in, a deep, perfect stroke. “You love this. You love being filled by me. Say it.”
“I love it,” Hyukjae gasped, pushing back against him. “I love your cock, Hae, fuck, please—”
Donghae set a brutal, pounding rhythm, each thrust jarring Hyukjae forward on the bed. His hands gripped Hyukjae’s hips, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, punctuated by Hyukjae’s ragged cries and Donghae’s guttural grunts. It was a fuck devoid of tenderness, a raw, physical reclaiming.
“You’re mine,” Donghae snarled, his breath hot on Hyukjae’s neck. “This tight fucking ass is mine. Your mouth is mine. Your time is mine. You don’t get to leave a fucking hole in my world ever again.”
He punctuated each claim with a deeper, harder thrust, hitting a spot inside Hyukjae that sparked lightning up his spine. Hyukjae was babbling, a stream of yes and yours and more, his own cock swinging hard and neglected beneath him, dripping onto the sheets.
One of Donghae’s hands snaked around, wrapping around Hyukjae’s length, his grip tight and slick with pre-come. He stroked him in time with his thrusts, a punishing, perfect coordination. The dual sensation was too much. Hyukjae shattered, his orgasm tearing through him with a silent scream, his body convulsing around Donghae’s invading length.
The violent clenching pulled Donghae over the edge. With a final, broken shout, he buried himself to the hilt, his hips stuttering as he pulsed deep inside. They collapsed together onto the damp sheets, a tangle of trembling limbs.
Silence returned, broken only by their struggling breaths. The strawberry scent was now mixed with the salty tang of sweat and sex. Donghae slipped out, but immediately gathered Hyukjae against him, his arms a vise.
Hyukjae, still hazy, felt the words rumble in Donghae’s chest before he heard them.
“October,” Donghae muttered into his damp hair, his voice thick with exhaustion and something else—a fear that never quite left. “You, me, Singapore. Loud toy. Nice to your uncle. But you sleep in my room. In my bed.”
Hyukjae turned his head, meeting Donghae’s gaze. The fierce possession was still there, but underneath it, in the slight tremble of his lower lip, was the little boy who’d waited too long in a quiet hotel room.
Hyukjae reached up, his hand still unsteady, and cupped Donghae’s cheek. “Our bed,” he corrected softly.
A flicker of something vulnerable crossed Donghae’s face. He nuzzled into the touch, his eyes closing. “Yeah,” he sighed, the fight finally draining from his body. “Ours.”
Outside, the sun dipped lower, painting the room in long, deep shadows. The red hoodie on the armchair was a dark smudge in the gathering gloom. It had watched another claiming, another fragile peace negotiated in sweat and salt and synthetic strawberry. It would watch many more.